


That's Not A Rock That's A Baby

by orphan_account



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Bad baby handling, Gen, I don't know jack about babies, I don't really know jack about anything why did I write this it's probably completely misinformed, Panic Attacks, parent!bro
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-09
Updated: 2013-10-09
Packaged: 2017-12-28 23:23:43
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,141
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/998142
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The smoke clears enough for you to make out the center of the crater, and whatever you expected to be there, it wasn't this.<br/>It's a baby.<br/>Well, a baby and a pony, but the pony is dead.  He's blonde and pale and he's sitting alone on top of the dead horse.<br/>And he's yours.</p>
            </blockquote>





	That's Not A Rock That's A Baby

**Author's Note:**

> So I literally just sat this down and wrote it in an hour and didn't really proofread it but whatever I just wanted to write it. Like I said sorry for any inaccuracies and also the fact that I mixed Rose's birthday up with Dave's. bluh bluh Also this is super melodramatic but I think i can only write overly melodramatic

You are going to buy some records.  
Hell, you do it every day. It's nothing special, never is. New music to mix with, that's all. You're young, have hells of dispensable income, and you're going to spend it on music.  
It could be worse.  
It could be drugs, or alcohol, or any number of other substances and activities that are detrimental to your health and well being. It could be, but they're more social activities than you're up for. The lack of peer pressure helps you abstain.  
You shove your hands in your pockets, wishing you had brought Cal despite the fact that he makes people look at you weird. You're nervous and you don't know why, but it feels like that shift in the pressure of the atmosphere before a massive storm and that's setting you on guard. You pause to tie your shoe, and your attention is devoted fully to the task. You fail to notice a meteor pass by overhead.  
You round the corner, expecting nothing different, despite your gut telling you that everything is about to change.  
Predictably, everything has.  
The record shop is gone. In it's place is a smoking crater. You're compelled to approach, something pushing you forward despite your gut twisting and the fact that you just want to be safe, at home, and not out here.  
No one is looking when you reach the edge of the crater because no one is around. The city is eerily silent.  
Your heart is hammering in your chest, but still whatever invisible force is pushing you continues to do so.  
The smoke from the impact begins to clear as you peer over the edge of the crater. This is it, you think, I'm that punk at the beginning of an episode of Supernatural and I'm about to die. That must be why your body is screaming at you to leave while all the while betraying itself and staying planted where you are.  
The smoke clears enough for you to make out the center of the crater, and whatever you expected to be there, it wasn't this.  
It's a baby.  
Well, a baby and a pony, but the pony is dead. He's blonde and pale and he's sitting alone on top of the dead horse.  
And he's yours.  
His freakish red eyes lock with yours, and you know with every fiber of your being that this is your baby. Your hands shake and you feel like you're going to vomit but you crawl down into the depression and scoop him into your arm anyway. His eyes meet yours again and you know you can't leave him because he knows that he belongs to you as much as you know it.  
Something is missing, though, so you reach around in your pocket until your hands find the sharp edges of a small pair of shades identical to yours. You'd bought them for Cal on a whim, but upon finding that glasses don't stay on him well due to his lack of ears (really, what were you expecting?) you'd decided to return them. On the way, you were going to buy some records.  
They fit perfectly on your baby's face, and that seems to cement the fact even further.  
He's yours.  
With a grunt you sling the dead horse over your shoulder, cradling your baby in the other, and walk home, albeit shakily.  
The streets are still empty.  
It's only when you close the door behind you and drop the horse carcass in the kitchen that you allow your composure to shatter. With the baby still in your arms, you slump into the futon. He's asleep, and you're panicking, but that doesn't seem to affect his rest so you don't worry about it. It's difficult to hear anything over the sound of your own heart beating and your sharp, short breaths, but you know what's happening. You're trembling, you're sweating, you're going to throw up, you can't breathe.  
You're going to die you're going to die you're going to  
Red eyes meet yours and you remind yourself to breathe.  
Red eyes meet yours and your breaths start to even out.  
In fifteen minutes your breathing is easy and your heard is steady and everything feels just a little bit more alright.  
However, you still have this baby and you don't know the first thing about babies, you're nineteen years old and you can't even take care of yourself. How are you supposed to take care of him?  
Your eyes find the phone and you reach for it, careful not to disturb the baby, who has fallen asleep again. You dial the familiar number, and when she picks up you feel even more alright.  
"Dirky?" she asks, and her voice sounds so tired and you feel terrible for her, she must be exhausted.  
With some measure of dread, you realize that you will probably feel the same very soon.  
"Roxy, thank God. I need your help."  
"Oh Dirk, again?"  
"No," you pause, then decide not to lie to her, "well, yes. But. That's not all. Something's happened."  
"Dirk, are you alright? You don't sound alright," you aren't, and maybe your breath still isn't as even as you thought it was if she can tell. Or maybe it's your tone? "What's going on, are you okay?"  
"No. Fuck, no I'm not. I found a baby."  
"A baby? What did you do? How do you just 'find' a baby?"  
"I'm keeping him. He's mine." You don't answer her third question, you don't want her to think you're crazy.  
"Are you sure?"  
"That he's mine or that I'm keeping him?"  
"Both, I guess," you hear crying in the background and she sighs.  
"Then yes. I have to, he's mine. But god, Roxy, I'm so scared. I can't even fucking take care of myself, how the hell am I supposed to take care of some goddamn baby? What if I fuck up? I don't know shit about babies. How am I going to do this?"  
"Dirk, I really don't think you should keep him."  
"You're keeping Rose, aren't you?" you snap.  
She pauses, and you feel viciously proud of yourself before regretting it.  
"Shit, I'm sorry, Rox. I didn't mean it to come out like that."  
Another pause. "I know, hun. Yeah, I'm keeping her. I have to. She's mine," she sighs, but when she speaks again her voice is bright. "I'll help you, though. We can help each other. I know we're far away, but we can do this together."  
You make an appreciative noise into the phone, and she laughs. "It'll be fun, Dirky! We can get the same books and read them over the phone together, and maybe when they get older you can fly up here or I can fly down there and they'll have a play date. We can invite Janey and Jake and it'll be just like high school again!"  
"That sounds nice. I'd like that."  
"Hey. You'll be okay. We'll be okay."  
You nod until you realize that she can't hear that, so you say "yeah."  
"So what's his name?"  
"His name?"  
This gets a laugh out of her, and you smile just from hearing it, "Of course! He's a person, Dirk. He needs a name!"  
"I... fuck you're right. I forgot about that."  
"You'll think of something, I'm sure."  
"Kamina."  
"Gesundheit," she giggles, "you're not naming your baby after any anime dudes, no matter how sugoi."  
"Damnit."  
"Just sleep on it," she suggests.  
You groan, "fine."  
"Anyway, you never answered my question?"  
"What?"  
"How you 'found' a baby?"  
"Oh," you grunt, "right. Uh, it's a weird story. You'll think I'm crazy."  
"I already do, but I love you anyway. Just tell me. It probably isn't as far-fetched as you think."  
"I uh," you falter, then mumble, "I found him in a crater, like, a meteor one. It was still smoking and hot and shit."  
"You gotta speak up, Dirk."  
"I found him in a fucking crater."  
Her breath hitches on the other end, and you know that you blew it. She thinks you're fucked in the head, that you've officially on off the deep end.  
"Dirk, really?" Her voice is soft and you want to cry because she thinks you're crazy. You try and speak but words don't come out and then she beats me to it. "Okay, I have a confession to make, then. I was never pregnant. You know how I was out near Seattle for work? I found her there. The same way you found your baby."  
"Oh."  
The baby shifts in your arms, and you curse as he rolls into your lap, the slight drop startling him awake. He starts crying, and Roxy laughs on the other end. You quickly pick him up again, trapping the phone in between your shoulder and cheek to hold him with both hands. "Look, it sounds like you have your hands full. If I were you, I'd calm him down and head to the library. Grab a few baby books and get cracking, mister!"  
"Yeah, that sounds like a good idea," you reply.  
"Good luck, Dirk! Call me whenever you need it. Seriously."  
"Thanks. Bye, Roxy."  
"Bye, Dirk."  
You both hang up, leaving you alone with a crying baby and no idea what to do.  
One hand is propping his ass up, the other splayed across his back and he's leaning against your chest with his head against your shoulder. His cries are piercing and so, so loud. You'll probably get noise complaints from your neighbors if he always sounds like this. You're starting to panic, not sure how to make him stop, but you take a deep breath. You start bouncing him lightly and pat at his back. As his cries die down, the room is filled with the sounds of your shooshing and papping. The baby stops crying after several minutes, and you exhale, leaning back into the futon again.  
Your moment of peace is interrupted by a knock on the door, and you slide off the couch and cross the apartment to open it.  
The cheerful young woman from the apartment next door stood in the doorway, smiling brightly. Her eyes flicked from you to your baby, and she seemed to make a connection.  
"Sup," you greeted, breaking the silence.  
"Hey! I'm Latula, I don't think we've actually met before. I live next door."  
"Uh, yeah. I like to keep to myself, I guess. I'm Di-," you made a split second decision. This was your brother. "Bro. Nice to meet you, I guess."  
"Nice to meet you, too. I heard your baby crying and I was a little confused and very curious," the baby turned his head and she leaned closer to look at him, "who's this rad little dude with the sweet shades?"  
"He's uh, my brother."  
"Neat! He livin' with you, now?"  
"Yeah, I guess he is."  
"What's his name, Bro?"  
You paused, panicking, mind racing. The baby looked up at you, and intrinsically you knew. "Dave."  
"Aw, he's cute!" She peered around you into the apartment, though you took up most of the doorway. "So uh, I can't help but notice you don't really have any baby crap."  
"Baby crap?"  
"Like, diapers and shit. Do you have anything?"  
"Not really. I didn't expect this, to be honest," you wonder if she's going to immediately call CPS. You wouldn't blame her.  
She pauses, "hang on, I'll be right back."  
When she returns, it's with a half-full bag of diapers and one of those backpacks you put your baby in. "Here. I babysat my little sister for a month while my parents were out, and I have some left over junk that they didn't need. You can have these." You switch to hold Dave against your chest with one hand and take the offered supplies with the other. Latula watches you and smirks. "If you ever need a babysitter or some help or anything, I'm like a baby master at this point. You'll probably want to go out and get formula now, unless you plan on breastfeeding him. Again, if you need it, I'm right next door, hit me up whenever."  
You look down at the gifts, and smile back up at her. "Thanks, Latula."  
"Anytime, man! Don't worry about it." She holds her fist up, and you bump the one with the bag of diapers against it. "I'll be seeing you, Bro, but seriously lemme know if you need help."  
You wave to her, then shut the door as she retreats down the hallway. You drop the things on the kitchen table. Looking down at Dave, you realize that that was the easiest interaction with a stranger you've had in months, and you don't feel as exhausted as you normally would.  
Yeah, maybe you'll be alright. And maybe Dave will help.


End file.
